For an instant she stood motionless. Then she reeled and tottered, as if about to fall. Then she recovered herself. Slowly, with a dazed, stunned air, groping blindly, she turned, and reached the door, and crossed the threshold. The rabbi followed, shutting the door behind him. Elias dropped into a chair. Bewildered, agitated, fagged-out, undone--he felt all this. But he felt not a pang for her. “If I had thrown you down and trampled upon you,” he wrote, a little less than two years afterward, “it would not have been so brutal, so cruel; but if I had done it in my sleep, I could not have been more insensible to your pain.” XV. ONE evening at dinner, about a fortnight later, “What's the matter, Elias?” the rabbi asked. “You're not feeling sick, are you? Or blue? Or worried about any thing?” “Why, no,” Elias answered, “I feel all right. Why do you ask?” “Oh, I don't know. I thought you were looking a little out-of-sorts. Likely enough, it was only an idea.” “The truth is,” Elias presently volunteered, “that, so far from feeling blue or low-spirited or anything of that kind, I don't seem to feel much of any thing at all. I'm sort of sluggish--dull--dead-and-alive. I'd give a good deal for a sensation, an excitement. I've been feeling this way pretty much all the time since--for the last two weeks. Heavy, thick, as though my blood had stopped circulating. I wish you'd stick a pin into me.” “Oh, you need a little amusement, a little fun, something to take you out of yourself. That's all. Why don't you go to the theater?” “No, thanks. I'm not fond of the theater. Besides, it's too hot.” “Well, then, why don't you make a call?” “A call! Pshaw; is that your notion of excitement?” “Well, it's better than sitting at home, and moping, isn't it?” “And, any how, whom do I know to call on?” “Whom do you know? Mercy upon me! I could name fifty people, whom you not only know, but to whom you actually owe calls. It's really abominable, the way you neglect, and always have neglected, your social duties. There's no excuse for it. If--if you were an old recluse like me, it would be different.” “I don't see how. What if you were a young recluse, like me?” “Ah, but nobody has a right to be a young recluse. It is only when we get along in years, that we are entitled to withdraw from the world. Besides, it's narrowing, it's hardening. You need contact with other people, to broaden your mind, and keep your sympathies alive. If you avoid society while you're young, the milk of human kindness will dry up in your bosom. You'll get coldblooded, selfish, indifferent.” Which amiable sentiments, falling from the lips of the rabbi, possessed a peculiar interest. “Come,” he added, “run up-stairs, and put on your best suit, and go make a call.” “Again I ask, whom on?” “On--on anybody. I'll tell you whom. Call on Mr. and Mrs. Koch.” The pronunciation of this name has been anglicized into _Coach_. “Which Koch? A. Hamilton?”